Waiting, and Afterwards

Taking something apart is much easier than putting it together after having taken it apart. That's why Humpty Dumpty couldn't be put together again, I imagine.

The car was much like Humpty Dumpty. And Ronny and I were all the king's horses and all the king's men.

Ronny was kind enough to give me a ride to Bedford. He said he wouldn't mind, that he didn't get a chance to get out of the city too often, but was always looking for an excuse. "Bedford's beautiful this time of year," he said when I got into his car. And he was right. I guess I hadn't noticed just how beautiful Bedford was this time of year. It is beautiful.

On the car ride to Bedford, Ronny and I didn't talk much. Sometimes, he would point out a billboard or a house. Sometimes, I would tell him which way to go. I would say, "I think I made a right turn here," or, "I remember that house, so it must have been further down this road."

Finally, we found my car. And we worked on it, intensely. We inspected the parts like we knew where they went. Ronny took the screwdriver and asked for this piece or that piece and I handed him the pieces, and then he said, "Almost," or, "Not quite," or, "Dangit!" Then, I took the screwdriver and put something somewhere and this thing here and that thing there until pieces were in places and the car started. The car started and I couldn't believe it! Ronny and I hugged, and then we parted quickly and looked at the car, our hands in our pockets and said, "Yep, yep."

Then Ronny said, "You know, Curt, you remind me of someone."
And I said, "Who?"
And Ronny said, "Me. You remind me of me."
And I said, "Really?"
And Ronny said, "Really."

I didn't know what to say. So I didn't say anything. I just stood there and nodded. I wanted to hold a beer in my hand. No one has ever told me that I reminded them of them. I wanted to say to Ronny: I can't remind you of you. Did you kill a man? Does your hurt still hurt? Have you been in prison? Do you feel like you're going crazy? Are you unemployed?

Ronny said he'd follow me home, just to make sure the car made it. But I knew he meant, just to make sure I made it. We drove through Bedford and onwards and sometimes, I would check my rear view mirror to see if Ronny was still there. Maybe he'd driven off, leaving me to myself. Maybe he'd gotten bored and made a turn onto another road. But he was always there. Right behind me. Support. And that's all I needed. Someone close, but far enough away. To be alone, but not forgotten. To hurt, but not forever.

When I pulled up to my apartment building, Ronny gave two quick honks and drove off. I waved and sat in my car and listened to the parts rattling. The car worked, but it was different. It wasn't the same car I'd driven a few days ago. It just wasn't. I didn't feel like the same person who'd gotten into it just a few hours earlier. I wasn't that Curt G. Jimenez. I turned off the car. I said, "What will happen now?" I said, "Why do I feel this way?" It wasn't a bad feeling. It was more like I'd been waiting to feel this way for a long time and now that I'd felt this way, my waiting was over and I could open the car door. And that's what I did. And now that the waiting was over, I could go into my apartment building. And that's what I did. And now that the waiting was over, I could rest.

And that's what I did.